Yours I received, and have been so far from being surpriz’d at, or

asham’d of your correspondence, that the first I desired, and the latter

was transported with. My mind has been long burdened, and I wanted such

a correspondence to disclose my grievances to, for there is no man on

earth that wou’d give me the hearing, for Popery makes a man of the best

parts a jest, and every fool with a feather in his cap, can overlook a

man of merit in rags. Wit from one out at heels, sounds like nonsense in

the ears of a gay fop, that knows no other furniture of a head, but a

full wig; and he that would split himself with the half jest of a lord

he wou’d flatter, is deaf to the best thing from the mouth, of a poor

fellow he can’t get by. These considerations, Sir, have made me proud of

this occasion, of replying to your obliging letter, in the manner you

desire. For as scandal was your occupation here above, you, like

vintners and bawds, living on the sins of the times; so a short

impartial account of the present state of iniquity and folly, cannot be

disagreeable to you.

Poetry was the vehicle that conveyed all your scandal to the town, and I

being conversant about the skirts of that art, my scandal must dwell

chiefly thereabouts; not omitting that scantling of general scandal of

the town, that is come to my knowledge; for you must know, since your

death, and your successor _Summerton_’s madness, lampoon has felt a very

sensible decay, and seldom is there any attempt at it, and when there

is, ’tis very heavy and dull, cursed verse, or worse prose: so gone is

the brisk spirit of verse, that us’d to watch the follies and vice of

the men and women of figure, that they could not start new ones faster

than lampoons expos’d them. This deficiency of satire is not from a

scarcity of vices, which abound more than ever, or follies more numerous

than in your time, but from a meer impotence of malice, which tho’ as

general as ever, confines itself to discourse; and railing is its utmost

effort, defaming over one bottle, those they caress over another. Every

man abuses his friend behind his back, and no man ever takes notice of

it, but does the same thing in his turn: And for sincerity, women have

as much: the women grow greater hypocrites than ever, lewder in their

chamber practice, and more formal in publick; they rail at the vices

they indulge; they forsake publick diversions, as plays, _&c._ to gain

the reputation of virtue, to give a greater loose to the domestick

diversions of a bottle and gallant; and hypocrisy heightens their

pleasures. The mode now is not as of old, in all amorous encounters,

every man to his woman, but like nuns in a cloyster, every female has

her _privado_ of her own sex; and the honester part of men, must either

fall in with the modish vice, or live chastly; to both which I find a

great many extreamly averse. There has a terrible enemy arose to the

stage, an abdicate divine, who when he had escaped the pillory for

sedition, and reforming the state, set up for the reformation of the

stage. The event was admirable, fanaticks presented the nonjuror, and

misers and extortioners gave him bountiful rewards: one grave citizen,

that had found the character too often on the stage, and famous for the

ruin of some hundreds of poor under-tradesmen’s families, laid out

threescore pounds in the impression, to distribute among the saints,

that are zealous for God and mammon at the same time: Bullies and

republicans quarrell’d for the _passive obedience_ spark; grave divines

extoll’d his wit, and atheists his religion; the fanaticks his honesty,

the hypocrite his zeal, and the ladies were of his side, because he was

_for submitting to force_. There is yet a greater mischief befall’n the

stage; here are societies set up for _reformation of manners_; troops of

_informers_, who are maintain’d by perjury, serve God for gain, and

ferret out whores for subsistence. This noble society consists of

divines of both churches, fanatick as well as orthodox saints and

sinners, knights of the post, and knights of the elbow, and they are not

more unanimous against immorality in their informations, than for it in

their practice; they avoid no sins in themselves, and will suffer none

in any one else. The fanaticks, that never preached up morality in their

pulpits, or knew it in their dealings, would seem to promote it in the

ungodly. The churchmen, that would enjoy the pleasure of sinners, and

the reputation of saints, are for punishing whores and drinking in all

but themselves. In short, the motive that carries the Popish apostles to

the richer continents, makes these gentlemen so busy in our reformation

money. Nay, reformation is grown a staple commodity, and the dealers in

it are suddenly to be made into a corporation, and their privileges

peculiar are to be perjury without punishment, and lying with impunity.

The whores have a tax laid on them towards their maintenance, in which

they share with captain _W_----, and the justices of the peace; for

_New-Prison_ knows them in all their turns, and twenty or thirty

shillings gives them a license for whoring, till next pay-day; so that

the effect of their punishment only raising the price of the sin, and

the vices of the nation maintain the informers. Drinking, swearing and

whoring are the manufactures they deal in; for should they stretch their

zeal to _cozening, cheating, injury, extortion, oppression, defamation,

secret adulteries, and fornication_, and a thousand other of these more

crying immoralities, the city would rise against these invaders of their

liberties, and the cuckolds one and all, for their own and their wives

sakes, rise against the reformers. These worthy gentlemen, for promoting

the interest of the _Crown Office_, and some such honest place, pick

harmless words out of plays, to indict the players and squeeze twenty

pound a week out of them, if they can, for their exposing pride, vanity,

hypocrisy, usury, oppression, cheating, and the other darling vices of

the master reformers, who owe them a grudge, not to be appeas’d without

considerable offerings; for money in these cases wipes off all defects.

There are other matters of smaller importance, I shall refer to my next,

as who kisses who in our dominions; that hypocrisy has infected the

stage too, where whores with great bellies would thrust themselves off

for virgins, and bully the audience out of their sight and

understanding; where maids can talk bawdy for wit, and footmen pass on

quality for gentlemen; fools sit as judges on wit, and the ignorant on

men of learning; where the motto is _Vivitur Ingenio_, the dull rogues

have the management and the profits; where farce is a darling, and good

sense and good writing not understood: and this brings to my mind a

thing I lately heard from a false smatterer in poetry behind the scenes,

and which if you see _Ben. Johnson_, I desire you to communicate to him.

A new author, says one, that has wrote a taking play, is writing _a

treatise of Comedy, in which he mauls the learned rogues, the writers,

to some purpose_; he shews what a coxcomb _Aristotle_ was, and what a

company of senseless pedants the _Scaligers_, _Rapins_, _Vossi_, _&c._

are; proves that no good play can be regular, and that all rules are as

ridiculous as useless. He tells us, _Aristotle_ knew nothing of poetry,

(for he knew nothing of his fragments so extoll’d by _Scaliger_) and

that common sense and nature was not the same in _Athens_ as in

_Drury-lane_; that uniformity and coherence was _green-sleeves_ and

_pudding-pies_, and that irregularity and nonsense were the chief

perfections of the _drama_. That the _Silent Woman_, by consequence was

before the _Trip to the Jubilee_, and the _Ambitious Step-Mother_,

better than the _Orphan_; that _hiccius doctius_ was _Arabick_, and that

_Bonnyclabber_ is the _black broth_ of the _Lacedæmonians_; and thus he

runs on with paradoxes as new as unintelligible; but this noble treatise

being yet in embryo, you may expect a farther account of it in the next,

from,

_Sir,

Your obliged humble Servant_,

WILL. PIERRE.

ANTIOCHUS _to_ LEWIS XIV. _By Mr._ HENRY BAKER.

_Dear Brother_,

You will be surpriz’d, I know, to receive this letter from a stranger;

and of all the damn’d, perhaps, I am the only man from whom you least of

all expect any news; because I have always passed for so impious and

cruel a prince, and my name has given people such horrid ideas of me,

that they think me insensible of pity, as having never practised any in

my life-time.

When I sat upon the throne of _Syria_, having no more religion than your

_Most Christian Majesty_, I stifled all the dictates of my conscience,

pillaged the temple of the _Jews_, caroused with their blood, and

running from one crime to another, drew infinite desolations every where

after me. But after I had exercised my tyranny on the innocent posterity

of several great kings, and left a thousand monuments of my barbarity, I

found to my sorrow, that I was mortal, and obliged to submit to that

fare, whose attacks feeble nature cannot resist. I then fell into an

abyss, which is enlightened only by those flames which will for ever

roast such monsters as we; and where I was loaded with heavier irons

than any I had plagu’d poor mortals with above. To welcome me into this

place of horror, and refresh me after my voyage, I was plung’d into a

bath of fire and brimstone, cupp’d by a Master-devil, rubb’d, scrubb’d,

_&c._ by a parcel of smoaking, grinning hobgobblins, and afterwards

presented with a musical entertainment of groans, howling, and gnashing

of teeth. I soon began to play my part in this hideous consort, where

despair beat the measure; and because my pains were infinitely greater

than those of others, I immediately asked the reason of my torments, and

was told it was for having hindered the peopling of Hell, by the

multitude of martyrs my long persecutions had made, and of which you

cannot be ignorant, if you delight in useful reading. Since I have been

in this empire of sorrow, where I found the _Pharaohs_, _Ahabs_,

_Jezebels_, _Athaliahs_, _Nebuchadnezzars_, &c. and where I have seen

arrive the _Neroes_, _Dioclesians_, _Decii_,[1] _Philips of Austria_,

[2] _Charles of Valois_, whose names would fill a volume; the recruits

of _Loyola_ arrive every day in search of their captain, but in some

confusion, for fear of meeting _Clement_ and _Ravillac_, who never cease

cursing them. Your apartments, _Most Christian Hero_, has been some

fifty years a rearing, but now they redouble their care, your coming

being daily expected; I give you timely notice of it, that you may take

your measures accordingly. Perhaps you will be offended at this

familiarity, and tell me no man can deserve hell for fighting against

hereticks, under the command of an infallible general; but if you know

the present state of those miter’d leaders, it would not a little

terrify you. _Lucifer_ has turned them into several shapes, and peopl’d

his back yard with them; the place ’tis true, is not so delightful as

your _Menagerie_ and _Trianon_ at _Versailles_, but much excels it in

variety and number of monsters. Your cell is in the same yard, that you

may be near your good friends, who advis’d you to make the habitation of

the shades a desart; for which the prince of darkness hates you

mortally, and designs you something worse than a fistula, or the bull of

_Phalaris_. Your ingenious emissaries, _Marillac_, _la Rapine_, and _la

Chaise_, will meet in the squadrons of _Pluto_ with more invenom’d

dragoons, than those they let loose against their poor countrymen in

_France_: ’twill be their employment to keep this _Menagerie_ clean,

whose stench would otherwise poison the rest of hell. That renegado

_Pelisson_ too makes so odious a figure here, that he frights the

boldest of our jaylors; and his eyes, red with crying for his sins,

which were so much the greater, because they were voluntary, make him

asham’d to look anyone in the face. Our learned think him profoundly

ignorant; yet you must be the _Trajan_ of that _Pliny_, for he is now

writing your history in such a terrible manner, that it will but little

resemble that which your pensionary wits are composing. The voyage

having made him lose some part of his memory, and forget the particulars

of your virtues; he will therefore take me for his model, and draw my

life under your name. Tho’ your dear [3] _Dulcinea_, whose head he

dresses like a girl’s, at the age of threescore and ten, makes the court

of _Proserpine_ rejoice before-hand; yet the deformed [4] author of the

comical romance, cannot laugh, as facetious as he is; I will tell you no

more, because some may think I give this counsel out of my private

interest; for having been always ambitious, it would doubtless grieve me

to see a more wicked and cruel tyrant than myself; but on the faith and

word of one that endures the sharpest of torments, ’tis pure compassion.

_I am Yours_, &c.

LEWIS _the_ XIV_th’s Answer_.

I just now receiv’d your’s by a courier, who, had he not been too nimble

for me, had been rewarded according to his deserts for his impudent

message. But are you such a coxcomb as to imagine that the most

ambitious monarch upon earth, whose power puts all the princes and

states of _Europe_ into convulsions, can be frighted at the threats of a

wretch condemn’d to everlasting punishments? The insolence of your

comparison, I must confess, threw me into a rage: and not reflecting at

first on the impossibility of the thing, I sent immediately for

_Boufflers_ to dragoon you. But, villain! because your malice has been

rampant for so many ages, must you now level it at the eldest son of the

church, whom the godly _Jesuits_ have already canoniz’d? I am not so

ignorant of the history of _Asia_, tho’ I never read any of the books of

the _Maccabees_; but I know you were both judge and executioner, and

that there is not in the universe one monument consecrated to your

glory. Thanks to the careful _Jesuits_, _la place des victoris_, is a

sufficient proof that my reputation is no _chimera_, and my name, which

is to be seen in golden characters over several monasteries, assures me

of a glorious immortality. ’Tis true, to keep in favour with the church,

I have compell’d a handful of obstinate fools to leave their country and

estates, by forcing them to renounce their God, and implicitly take up

with mine. Therefore the world has no reason to make such a noise about

it. Are you mad to call _Pelisson_, who has read more volumes than a

_rabbi_, and cou’d give lessons of hypocrisy to the most exquisite sect

of the _Pharisees_, a block-head? Your torments are so great, you know

not on whom to spit your venom, and my poor [5] mistress, forsooth, must

suffer from your malice: Is she the worse for being born in the reign of

my grandfather? Pray ask _Boileau_, whose sincerity has cost him many a

tear, what he thinks of her. All the world knows her virtues, and that

she is grown grey in the school of dissimulation and lewdness, which

have render’d her so charming in the feats of love, that she pleases me

more than the youngest beauty; therefore are her wrinkles the objects of

my wonder, and the provocatives of my enervated limbs, instead of being

antidotes; and I would not give a saint a wax-candle to make her

younger. Tho’ I am seiz’d by a cancer on the shoulder, yet I am under no

apprehensions, for I have given a fee to St. _Damian_, who will cure me

of it, as well as of that nauseous malady of _Naples_: And I have

plenipotentiaries now bribing heaven for its friendship, and a new term

of years. Then ’tis in vain for _Lucifer_, or you, ever to expect me;

and when I must leave this terrestial _paradice_, ’twill be with such a

convoy of _Masses_, as will hurry me by the very gate of _Purgatory_,

without touching there. In the mean time correct your saucy liberty, and

let a monarch who wou’d scorn to entertain such a pitiful wretch as thou

art for his pimp, still huff the world, and sleep quietly in his

_seraglio_.

_Versailles_, July 14.

LEWIS R.

CATHARINE de Medicis, _to the Duchess of_ ORLEANS.

_Madam_,

I have long bewailed your condition, and tho’ I am in a place of horror,

yet I should think myself in some measure happy, if I knew how to

deliver you from those anxieties which torment you. We have some body or

other arrives here daily from _Versailles_, and as my curiosity inclines

me to enquire after your highness, I have received so advantageous a

character of your goodness from all hands, that I think every one ought

to pity you. Your life, madam, has been very unhappy, for you were

married very young to a jealous ill-natur’d prince, who had no love for

you; tho’ no person in the world was fitter either to inspire or receive

it than yourself: However, you have had better luck than his former

wife, which I take to be owing to your prudence, and not his generosity.

The desolations of the _Palatine_, and persecution of a religion you

once approved, must infallibly have given you many uneasy moments, but

your misfortunes did not stop here, for even your domestick pleasures

have been poison’d by the dishonour and injustice of the court you live

in. In short, tho’ I was very unfortunate, yet I think you much more

worthy of compassion: When I married _Henry_ II. I was both young and

handsome, yet his doting on the haughty duchess of _Valentinois_, who

was a grandmother before _Francis_ II. was born, made me pass many

melancholy nights. Notwithstanding the injustice as well as cruelty of

keeping a saucy strumpet under my nose, yet with the veil of prudence

and religion, I easily covered my inclinations, because the pious

cardinal of _Lorrain_, who had an admirable talent to comfort an

afflicted heart, commiserating my condition, gave me wonderful

consolation. As the refreshing cordials of the church soon made me

forget the king’s ill usage of me; so, madam, it is not so much the

infidelity of your husband, as the cruel constraint and jealousy, that

makes me think your life to be miserable; for how great soever your

occasions are, you dare not I know, accept of those assistances, I daily

receive from a plump agreeable prelate, and I am heartily sorry for it.

To divert this discourse, which may perhaps aggravate your uneasiness,

by renewing your necessities, you’ll tell me, I suppose, that I shou’d

have had as much compassion, when _France_ was dy’d with the blood of so

many thousand victims, and that I might easily have moderated the fury

of my son, and of the house of _Guise_; but besides, you must consider,

I was a zealous Papist; and they, you know, think the cutting of poor

hereticks throats is doing heaven good service; so that I beheld the

dreadful massacre of St. _Bartholomew_ with as much satisfaction as ever

I did the most glorious and solemn festival. I am not for it at present,

madam, and could I have been so sooner, it would have been much more for

my ease. All my comfort is, that I am not by myself in a strange and

unknown country: for the old duchess, who robbed me of my due

benevolence in the other world, continually follows me to upbraid me;

the _Guises_ rave, brandishing bloody daggers in their hands; and every

hour I meet with numbers of my former acquaintance and nearest

relations, but I avoid their company as much as I can, for the love of

my dear cardinal, who continues as great a gallant as ever. I ask no

masses of you, for the dead are not a farthing the better for them. But,

madam, since all the world has not so good an opinion of me at

_Brantome_, let me conjure you not to let my memory be too much

insulted. Some may say I was as cunning as _Livia_, that I was even with

my husband, and govern’d my children; but their fate did not answer my

care: For _Francis_ liv’d but a little time, _Elizabeth_ found her tomb

in the arms of a jealous husband, the queen of _Navarre_ was a wandering

star, _Charles_ a cautious coxcomb, that sacrificed all to his safety;

and _Henry_, on whom I had founded all my hopes, a dissolute debauchee,

whom the justice of heaven would not spare. You know his history, and if

you shou’d see a tragedy, of the like nature acted on your stage, let

your constancy, which makes you respected even in hell, support you. Let

old [6] _Messalina_ enjoy the famous honour of the royal bed; you need

not blush at it, since all the world esteems you as much as they.

_The Answer of the Duchess of_ ORLEANS _to_ CATHARINE de Medicis.

’Twas with much reason you pity me; and tho’ I have said nothing all

this while, yet I have not thought the less. If the practice of our

court did not teach me to dissemble, I should give myself some ease, by

imparting many things to you, which would fill you with horror; and then

you would find that the cruelties of your sons were trifles in

comparison of these. The most impartial censurers of barbarity maintain

that the massacre of St. _Bartholomew_ was milder than the present

persecution of the Protestants: Ambition was the chiefest motive of the

_Guises_; but now their cruelties are covered with the cloak of

religion; for the virtuous favourite [7] _Sultaness_, with the pitious

[8] _Mufti_ in waiting, are resolved to cause the christians to be more

cruelly persecuted than they were at _Algiers_, and the _Roman church_

is resolved, at any rate, to merit the name of the blood-thirsty beast.

They value not exposing the reputation of princes; I blush for my race,

and am often obliged to swallow my tears. I believe the efficacy of

masses no more than you, therefore I will not offer you any. I am very

glad to hear the cardinal of _Lorrain_ proves so constant; for a prelate

of his talent and constitution must certainly be a great consolation to

a distressed princess. _Brantome_ who has so much flatter’d you, may do

it again; and tho’ _Sancy_ has been too sincere, yet he dares not

contradict him in your presence. I hope to see the ruins of my country

rais’d up again; for tho’ our ambitious monarch huffs and hectors all

Christendom, yet his game to me seems very desperate, and I believe

he’ll prove the dog in the fable; since he has so depopulated and

impoverish’d his dominions by persecutions, that those pious drones the

_Monks_, only can support the church’s grandeur in their faces, with

three story-chains; the rest of his people being reduc’d to wooden-shoes

and garlick. Tho’ our _Gazettes_ are little better than romances, yet

they will serve to divert you and your cardinal, when not better

employ’d; and I wish I could send them to you weekly. ’Tis true, great

numbers set out daily from hence, for your country; and among them,

people of the best quality, but I carefully avoid all commerce with

them; and tho’ I have a wonderful esteem for you, take it not amiss,

madam, if I endeavour never to see you.

_Cardinal_ MAZARINE, _to the Marquis_ de BARBASIUX.

I am surpriz’d to think you have profited so little by your father’s

example: as great a beast he was, he govern’d himself better than you;

for contenting himself with pillaging all _France_, according to our

maxims, he never attempted the life of any man, nor ever set any [9]

_Ravillacs_ to work. Is it not a horrible thing to see the [10] servant

of a minister of state suffer upon the wheel, and publish the shame of

him that set him to work? You were mightily mistaken in the choice of

your villain; for whenever you have a king to dispatch, you must employ

a _Jesuit_, or some novice inspired by their _religious society_; and

had you been so wise, the prince [11] you had a plot against wou’d not

be now in the way, to hinder the designs of a [12] king, for whom I have

the tenderness of a father, who was always under my subjection, and

wou’d have married my niece, if I had pleas’d. I fell into a cold sweat

even in the midst of my fire and brimstone, at the news of your

conspiracy; because it so severely reflected on his reputation. Ought

you to have exposed his credit in so dubious an enterprize? Is it not

sufficient that poets set upon him [13] _Mont Pagnotte_, whilst other

princes gave glorious examples at the head of their troops? That they

reproach him with incest, sodomy, adultery, and an unbridled passion for

the relict of a poor [14] poet, who is a turn-spit here below, and who

had nothing to keep him from starving when upon earth, but the pension

which the charity of _Anne of Austria_ granted to his infirmities,

rather than his works, tho’ very diverting. What was your aim in this

cowardly design? wou’d you have more servants, and more whores? Or,

ought you to effect that, to revive those scenes of cruelty and

treachery which we banish’d after the death of the most eminent cardinal

_Richlieu_? All the wealth you can raise, will never amount to the

treasures I was master of; and how much is there now left, ask the duke

of _Mazarine_, and my nephew of _Nevers_; one has been the bubble of the

priests, and the other of his pleasures. So that the children of the

first will hardly share one year of my revenue. His wife for several

years was no charge to him, she for her beauty, being kept by strangers;

whilst he fool’d away those vast riches he had by her. In short, you see

the praying coxcomb I made choice of, which, I must confess, I did when

I was in my cups, has thro’ his zeal and bigotry ruin’d all, even my

most beautiful statues; and that there is a curse entail’d upon such

estates as begin with a miracle, and end with a prodigy. I was born at

_Mazare_, without any other advantage than that of my beauty; but as a

young fellow can scarce desire a better portion than that, in _Italy_,

so it mov’d cardinal _Anthony_ to lead me lovingly from his chamber to

his closet, where on a soft easy couch, he preach’d to me morals after

the _Italian_ fashion; by which, and some other virtuous actions of the

same stamp, I became the richest favourite in the universe. You may as

well as I, heap a mighty treasure, and lose it foolishly. Do not be

guilty then of murder, for things so uncertain in the possession. Poor

_Louvois_! who left you all, who drank more than _Alexander_, and

thiev’d better than _Colbert_, or I, has not now water to quench his

thirst. You will undoubtedly meet the same destiny; for this is the

residence of traitors, murtherers, thieves, and all other notorious

villains. ’Tis not altogether so pleasant a place as [15] _Meudon_ and

_Chaville_; for we drink nothing but _Aqua-fortis_, and eat burning

_charcoal_; all happiness is banish’d, misery only triumphs; and

notwithstanding all those lying stories the priests may tell you, yet

you’ll be strangly surpriz’d, when you come to judge it by your own

experience.

_The Answer of Monsieur le Marquis de_ BARBASIEUX, _to Cardinal_

MAZARINE.

Your eminence I find, is in a great passion, because my father did not

get an estate in your service: Must you therefore abuse him, and turn

that as a crime upon me, which has been practis’d ever since there have

been kings in the world? If your talent only lay in pillaging and

plundering, must it therefore prescribe to mine? And do you think the

glory of taking away by dagger or poison the enemies of one’s prince,

deserves less immortality, than of ruining of his subjects? You have, I

confess, very meritoriously eterniz’d your name by that method, for

which reason you ought in conscience to allow me the liberty to find out

another. You are much in the wrong on’t, to complain of the duke of

_Mazarine_, who did you the honour to think you were only in purgatory,

and lavish’d your treasures upon bigots, in hopes to pray you out of it.

If he in a holy fit of zeal, dismember’d your fine statues, which

perhaps too often recalled to your memory the pious sermons of cardinal

_Anthony_, he is severely punish’d in a libel made against him, in

vindication of your beauteous niece. If that satire reaches your regions

below, you’ll soon be convinced what a coxcomb you were when you chose

the worst of men, to couple with the most charming of women. This, with

several other passages of your life, makes me not much wonder at your

condemning me by your cardinal’s authority, to drink _Aquafortis_, and

eat burning charcoal; it may perhaps be a proper diet for _Epicurean_

cardinals and _Italians_, who love hot liquors, and high-season’d

ragoos; but the lords of _Chaville_ and _Meudon_ do not desire your

entertainments. How do you know, I beseech you, but I may take the cell

of the young Marquis _d’Ancré_ at [16] _Mont Valerine_; there, by a long

penitence, to purge me of those sins you say I have committed? Therefore

if you reckon me in the number of those reprobates, doom’d to people the

infernal shades, time will at last make it appear, that your eminence

has reckoned without your host.

MARY I. _of_ England _to the_ Pope.

_Most Holy Father_,

The malignant planet that governed at my birth, so influenc’d all the

faculties of my soul, that I was the most outragious and barbarous

princess till that time mounted the _English_ throne; and as it is no

extraordinary thing to continue in the same temper, in a country

inhabited only with tyrants, and the butchers of their subjects, so you

ought not to be surprised, if I am not now dispossessed of it. I had not

long troubled the world before my mother [17] was divorced, and I myself

declared incapable of succeeding _Henry_ VIII. _Anne Boleyn_ was then

brought to the royal bed; and what was worse, with her was introduced a

religion so conformable to the laws of God, that it never suited with my

inclinations. The proud rival of _Catherine_, was afterwards sacrific’d

to the inconstancy of her voluptuous husband; but that insipid religion,

to my grief, was not confounded with her; for the young and simple

_Edward_ countenanced it during his reign. But then came my turn, and

you know, sovereign pontiff, with what pride and malice I mounted the

throne; the means I used to destroy that cursed heretical doctrine; the

pleasure I took in shedding my subjects blood; what magnificence and

splendor I gave to the mass; how barbarously I treated that innocent and

beautiful princess _Jane Gray_; with what severity I used my sister

_Elizabeth_, and also the immoderate joy that seized my precious soul,

when I married a prince who had, as well as I, the good quality of being

cruel to the highest degree, is not unknown to you. Notwithstanding what

I said in the beginning of my letter, you may, perhaps, think my

sentiments now altered: but I assure you the contrary, and that I cannot

behold with patience your present insensibility and mildness. Is it

possible you can suffer a religion, destitute of all ornaments, that has

nothing but truth and simplicity to recommend it, to get the advantage

of your _Rome_, which reigns in blood and purple, subsists by falshood

and idolatry, and sets up and pulls down kings? how can you endure it?

what a horrid shame and weakness is this? are there no more _Ravillacs_?

is there neither powder nor daggers, in the arsenal of the Jesuits? have

they forgot how to build wheels, gibbets, and scaffolds? or is your

malice, envy, hatred, and fury, seized with a lethargy? ’s death! holy

father, I am distracted when I think that nothing succeeds in _England_,

where I took so much pains, and practised so much cruelty to establish

Popery, and root out the doctrine of the apostles; and where your pious

emissaries following my zeal, had invented most admirable machines to

sacrifice, with _James_ I. all the enemies of your Anti-christian

Holiness. Do you sleep? and must _France_ only brandish the glorious

flambeau of persecution? Consider, I pray, that I employ the best of my

time in imprecations against the deserters from your church; that I so

inflamed my blood in those transports, that it threw me into a dropsy,

which hurried me to the grave. My husband, who was too much of my temper

to love me, was very little concerned: In short, that filthy disease

stifled me, a certain presage of the continual thirst I now suffer. But

I once more beseech you, most holy father, to re-inforce your squadrons,

to join them with the Most Christian King’s, and, with your holy

benediction, give them strict orders to grant no quarters to the

disciples of St. _Paul_. You will infinitely oblige by it both me and

_Lucifer_, who is now as zealous a _Romanist_ as your _eldest son_, and

who, like him, would not willingly suffer any but good Papists, the

friends and pensioners of _Versailles_, those sworn enemies of liberty

and property, in his dominions. I am so ill-natur’d, that my husband

_Philip_ is as cautious of embracing me, as he was in the other world;

but that’s no misfortune either to Earth or Hell, for we could produce

nothing but a monster between us, which would be the terror of mankind,

and horror of devils.

_The_ POPE_’s Answer to Queen_ MARY I.

You are too violent, dear madam, and men of my age and grandeur require

more moderation. I am acquainted with your history, and know your zeal;

by the same token, you need not waste your lungs to acquaint me with

either the one or the other. To be free with you, I am not of the humour

to espouse madly other peoples passions, tho’ I should leave the triple

crown destitute of all pomp and greatness. But I will make the hereticks

blot out of their writings, if possible, the names of _Antichrist_,

_devouring Dragon_, _Wolf disguis’d in sheeps-skin_, and several others

as abusive. Do you not believe people are weary of paying a blind

obedience to the see of _Rome_? Imperious _France_ has made us sensible

of it; and it is not the fault of the _eldest son of the Church_, if he

does not dethrone his mother. Ecclesiastical censures are now out of

fashion, and no more minded than pasquinades. We were scorn’d and

ridicul’d in your father’s time; and tho’ you were as handsome as my

_quondam_ mistress, _Donna Maria di S. Germano_, you would not oblige me

to put up fresh affronts for your sake. Your husband is to blame to

treat you with such indifference, and I think it very ill for an

infected worm-eaten carcase to despise so devout a queen. But I cannot

imagine why the popes, who live all under the same zone with you, suffer

such coldness. Suppose your husband should, like a heretick, despise

their exhortations, one of their decrees has power enough to divorce

you; which in time, I hope, may advance your grandeur; for we hear

_Pluto_ is in love with you for your zeal, and _Proserpine_ is given

over by the physicians. Therefore take my advice, and drink as little

water as you can; for being dropsical, the water of _Styx_ must needs be

prejudicial to you, and the church would lose an admirable good friend.

I offer you no indulgences, they are pure mountebank drugs, and were you

got no farther yet than Purgatory, have not the virtue to bring you

out. But grant they had that power, as your amours stand now, I suppose

you would not desire it; so, till I have the happiness of wishing your

imperial majesty much joy, _I am_, &c.

HARLEQUIN _to Father_ la CHAISE.

Since we were of the same trade, with this difference only, that I

compos’d farces to make the world laugh, and that you invent tragedies

that gave them horror: I believe, reverend father, you will not condemn

the liberty I take of writing to you.

In the first place, I beseech your reverence, not to put your penitents

out of conceit with those harmless diversions which make me and my

brother-players live so plentifully; but be pleased to take our small

flock into your protection: that power lies in the breast of you and

your pious society: and who wou’d grudge it to such holy men, who have

no other aim than settling and satisfying men’s consciences, by clearing

all the controverted difficulties of Christianity, and rendring religion

so plain and easy, that our enemies cannot find the least doubt or

difficulty in it. Nay, like a dextrous artist you can, with your

admirable morals, remove the justest scruples; for they give so pious an

air, so devout a shade to the greatest crimes, that they enchant the

world, and hide their deformity, without opposing the licentiousness of

passions, or destroying their pleasures or intention. These admirable

talents, most holy confessor, open to your society the closets and

hearts of princes, and bring all the lovers of voluptuousness and

barbarity to be your confessionaries. Truly, reverend father, your fame

is infinite, and the great St. _Loyola_ may be proud of having so many

righteous disciples. But these miracles make the world believe him

something related to _Simon Magus_; for without inchantments ’tis

impossible to do so many prodigies. The lameness in his feet, and megrim

he’s daily troubled with, by being too near a hot furnace of brimstone,

makes him so peevish and out of humour, that he cannot write to any of

you; therefore look upon me as his secretary, and not a-jot the lesser

saint for having been upon the stage; all _Paris_ can witness for me,

that as soon as I laid aside my comical mask and habit, I could, upon

occasion, look as demure and devout as a fresh pardoned penitent; so

that the employment is neither above my gravity, nor I hope above my

sincerity and capacity; for I have often had the honour of shewing my

parts before his most christian majesty in his _seraglio_, to make him

more prolifick, and more disposed to the mighty work of propagation.

But, reverend father, ’tis time now to tell you, as a good catholick and

your friend, that we are so scandaliz’d here at his conduct, that we

cannot believe he follows your holy advice; and were it not for this

doubt, and our sollicitations, _Lucifer_ had last summer sent _Loyola_

under the command of Monsieur _Luxembourg_, to dragoon you. _Zounds!_

says he, _is the order that daily sent me so many subjects revolted?_

’Tis true, the rogues _Ravillac_ and _Clement_ have a little disgrac’d

you, but we don’t value now what they say, for the wits have espoused

your quarrel, and blinded the eyes of detraction. Indeed it is no wonder

to us, since they sing to _Apollo_’s harp, which had the power to claim

the transports of _Jupiter_. Is there any thing so charming as the

discourse of [18] _Ariste_ and _Eugene_, and that little _Je ne sçai

quoi_, they speak so wittily of? Who can resist the art of good

invention in the work of wit, or an exquisite choice of good verses? And

who would not be charm’d with all those panegyricks upon the ladies? Is

not once reading of them a thousand times more diverting, than those

profound writings you so prudently forbid your penitents the perusal of?

I own indeed, that this conduct is not altogether so apostolical, but

’tis much easier than to be always puzzling and hammering our parables.

’Tis certain, most reverend father, shou’d you leave the sacred writ

open to all readers, it would fare with a thousand good souls, as with

king _Ahasuerus_, who became favourable to the true religion, by reading

a true chronicle, how many blind wretches think ye would see clear? How

many favourites would be hang’d, and _Mordecai_’s raised to honour? And

how many _Jesuits_ would be treated as the priests of _Baal_? But you,

I’m sure, will take care to hinder that; for truly ’twould be contrary

to your ecclesiastical prudence; and it is much safer for you to darken

the divine lights, and confound by sophisms the sacred truths of holy

writ: for what would become of your church, if the clouds were once

dispersed, since it flourishes by their favour, and the protection of

ignorance? Nothing can keep up the credit of a repudiated cheat, whose

shams are so notorious, and whole equipage so different from that of the

legitimate spouse of _Jesus Christ_, that neither he, nor any of his

faithful servants know or own her, but ignorance and falshood. I ask

your pardon, most reverend father, these expressions flow so naturally

from my subject, that they have escaped my sincerity; and I own this is

not the style of a flatterer. But to atone for my fault, I will give you

some wholsome advice, which is, _to make hay while the sun shines_, for

you must not expect much fair weather in these doleful quarters. Those

worthy gentlemen called _Confessors_, being looked upon here to be no

better than so many _Ignes fatui_, that lead their followers into

precipices; for which reason they are not allowed ice with their liquor.

This I can allure you to be true, _in verbo histrionis_: Therefore since

you know what you must trust to, I need not advise a person of your

profound parts, what measures to take. _Amen._

_Father_ la CHAISE_’s Answer to_ HARLEQUIN.

Tho’ you convers’d with none but impudent lousy rhimers, yet you are not

ignorant, you little jack-pudding of the stage, that all comparisons are

odious; and that there can be none between the confessor of a monarch,

and a buffoon. But to answer your letter with the moderation and

prudence of a _Jesuit_, I will suppose the first part of it not meant to

me. And now to take into consideration the essential points in it: have

we not proscribed heresy by sound of trumpet? And notwithstanding all

the pretty books we have published, and the cajoling tricks we have

used, is not heresy still the same? But to be serious, _Harlequin_, good

_Roman Catholicks_ must follow no other lights than those of tradition;

and they, who are so incredulous and obstinate as not to believe it,

must have their eyes opened with the sword. ’Twould be a fine

enterprize, wou’d it not, and very profitable to the church, to condemn

images, candles, holy-water, beads, scapularies, relicks, with an

hundred others, which are so many golden mines, and offer only to bigots

the slovenly equipage of _Calvin_’s reformation? Devotion meerly

spiritual, is too flat and insipid; therefore we must set it off with

jubilees, pilgrimages, processions, drums, trumpets, crosses, banners,

and all the mountebank tricks, and noble nick-nacks of St. _Germain_’s

fair. If I did not know that jesting was an habitual sin in you, I wou’d

never pardon you; for the _Society of Jesus_ does not teach us to

forgive injuries. Tell St. _Loyola_, the first of us that shall be sent

post to mighty _Lucifer_, to desire his assistance in those important

affairs our great monarch has undertaken by his instigation, and which

are too tedious now to relate, shall put into his portmantle some ice to

refresh him, plaisters for his megrim, and ointment for his burns: tell

him also, that the memory of the glorious prophet _Mahomet_, is not more

respected than his; and that I am,

_His most zealous,

and very humble Servant_,

la CHAISE.

_The Duke of_ ALVA _to the_ CLERGY _of_ FRANCE.

I believe, worthy gentlemen, you are very well satisfy’d that I am

damn’d; and---- indeed there was little likelihood that such a monster

as myself should enjoy happiness, after having committed so much

wickedness, and taken so much pleasure in it. I took a fancy to acts of

cruelty from my very cradle, and with great fidelity serv’d _Philip_ II.

The celebrated apostle of the _Gentiles_ never made so many miserable

wretches when he was as violent a zealot of the law; I, like him, made

use of chains, racks, fire, and all that an ingenious fury cou’d imagine

most tormenting; but it was never any part of my destiny to be converted

at last like him. Thus I went on in my iniquities, and became the

strongest brute that bigottry ever debauch’d; so that at my first

arrival to Hell, there was never a Devil of the whole pack but fell a

trembling, tho’ he had been never so much accustomed to such company

before. But, gentlemen, why are you not become wise by my example? For

you must not flatter yourselves, that the difference of our professions

makes any in our crimes. You are warriors when you please; for the

monastick soldiery follow’d the duke of _Mayeney_’s standard during the

league; crowned themselves with immortal shame at the barbarous triumph

of St. _Bartholomew_; and shoulder’d the musket after they had preached

those bloody sermons, which made christians treat their fellow-creatures

like beasts of prey. I confess, I never troubled my head about scruples

of conscience, and if I have not obeyed that article of the decalogue,

_Thou shalt not kill_, I never roared out with a wide mouth, as the

priests of the _Roman Church_, persecute, imprison, kill, destroy, force

them to obey. My fury came only from your brethren, who had so

thoroughly corrupted me, that I thought Heaven would be my reward, if I

butcher’d all they were pleased to stigmatize with heresy. So I gave a

loose to my passions, as you may read in history, where, I think, they

have used me but too kindly. To seduce men of weak understandings is no

extraordinary matter; but that princes, who ought to have a competent

knowledge of every thing, should be cheated by you, is a miracle to me.

No age of the world ever saw a greater example of it, than in my master

_Philip_, whose natural sloth, and besotted bigottry, gave so fair a

field to these ecclesiastical impostors, so fair an opportunity to

manage him as they pleased; and his father’s [19] ashes are a sufficient

proof of it. Instead of setting before his eyes the example of that

invincible prince, these sanctify’d villains only plunged him deeper in

superstition and idolatry. And as a domineering lazy lord of a country

village, will never go out of his own parish, so he never travelled

farther than from _Madrid_ to the _Escurial_. His wife, father, son, and

brother, felt the effects of their barbarous doctrine. And, to leave

behind him a pious idea of his soul, when he was dying, he ordered his

crown and coffin to be set before him. This was hypocrisy with a

witness, but that is no crime in a zealot. You’ll tell me perhaps, I

direct my discourse to improper persons, who know not the history of

_Philip_ of _Austria_, ignorance being common enough in those of your

fraternity, yet let me tell you, I am not mistaken; for the diabolical

spirit that now possesses you, is the very same that influenced the

priests of my time; and I may safely affirm, that _France_ is the

theatre of cruelty and iniquity. Your monarch, who is much such another

saint as my master, spares the poor Protestants lives, for no other

reason, but to make, by his inhuman torments, death more desirable to

them. These, and a thousand more unjust actions does he commit, to

satiate your hellish vanity, which would for ever domineer in the city

built on seven mountains. To this you will answer, What doth it signify

if we make him persecute the Protestants, murther their kings, and keep

no faith or treaties with them, since it encreases our power, and

propagates our religion? But, gentlemen, when you come to be where I am,

you will, I’m certain, sing another tune.

_The Answer of the_ CLERGY _of_ FRANCE _to the Duke of_ ALVA.

Had you made as sincere a confession in the days of yore, as you do now,

you might, for your zeal in persecuting heresy, have obtain’d an ample

absolution of all your sins, tho’ they had been never so numerous and

black, and been a glorious saint in the _Roman_ calendar; which induces

us to believe, your zeal tended rather towards the propagation of your

own power and interest, than that of the church. Thus in cheating us,

you likewise cheated yourself; and we are not sorry at your calamities.

But, does it become you, who once fill’d _Flanders_ and _Spain_ with

horror, to reproach the apostolick legions with the noble effects of

their fervency? And was it not absolutely necessary, after we had once

preached the destruction of the Protestants, that _Lewis_ the Great, to

compleat his glory, and our satisfaction, should send his holy troops to

burn, ravish, and pillage at discretion; that he might say with an

emperor of _Rome_, whom he very much resembles, _Let them hate, so they

fear me_? Where, Sir, do you find us commanded to keep faith with

hereticks, or suffer their princes to live, when ’tis against our

interest? Does not the _Roman_ church dispense with these little

_peccadillo’s_? And are not those who wear her cloth, and eat her bread,

oblig’d to obey her precepts? What pleases us most is to hear a whining

recreant as thou art, sing _peccavi_ at this time of day, and pretend to

remorse of conscience. For your comfort, you may desire _Cerberus_, if

you please, to join in the consort with you; but rest assured, that if

you had three mouths like that triple-headed cur, your barking would be

all in vain.

PHILIP _of_ AUSTRIA _to the_ DAUPHINE.

What do you mean, worthy kinsman, by pretending to be a man of honour!

Does it become a person of your birth? Do you find any precedent for it

in your family? Did your father make himself formidable by it? Or do you

find in history, that any merciful or generous prince made himself so

great, or reigned so prosperously for almost sixty years, as your

debauched and perjured father has done, who is now the terror and

scourge of _Europe_, and will be its tyrant, if treachery and gold can

prevail? But do you think those things to be crimes in sovereigns? If he

has indulg’d his lust, does he not severely persecute heresy? And

besides, does not his [20] mistress constantly pray and offer sacrifice?

You know she’s old enough to be prudent, and lives upon the gravity of

her age, since she stretches her devotion, even to the stage, by the

same token, she will suffer none of her husband’s [21] diverting farces

to be acted there any more. Thank Heaven therefore for sending you that

bountiful patroness from the [22] new world, who is the comfort and

preservation of your father and his kingdoms; and tho’ your mother was

my near relation, yet I am not ashamed to see so pure and zealous a

saint supply her place in the royal bed. I wonder she has not yet

prevailed with you to have more regard for the interest of the _Roman

Church_; to promote the grandeur, whereof I destroy’d many thousands of

its enemies, by the ministry of the duke of _Alva_, and order’d my

father’s bones to be dug out of the ground and burnt, for having

tolerated _Luther_’s heresy. Otherwise I should never have concern’d

myself about it, supposing none but flegmatick coxcombs would espouse a

church which does not keep open house all the year round, and won’t

pardon the greatest crimes for money. You know, I don’t doubt, what my

jealousy cost my [23] son and [24] wife, and how I treated the [25]

conqueror at _Levanto_: to balance that account with Heaven, I gave

largely to the priests, built monasteries, went to processions, was

loaded like a mule with beads and relicks, and by this means passed for

a saint. And this I think may properly enough be called a good religion.

’Tis true, I never saw any engagement but in my closet, or at a

distance, like your prudent father: what then, does the world talk less

of me, or him for that? The end of my life, I must confess, was

something singular, for the worms serv’d an execution upon my carcase

before the time; and so we hear they do his. But what does that signify,

so a man satisfies his own humour? Be not infatuated then with

vain-glory; for if they, who are exempt from the flames of hell, boast

of having angels, saints, and martyrs for their companions, we can brag

of having popes, cardinals, emperors, kings, queens, jesuits, monks, and

priests in abundance. I must own, our walks have not the charming

fountains and shades of [26] _Versailles_, and the _Escurial_; and that

it is always as hot weather with us here, as with the good folks under

the _Torrid Zone_: but such a trifle as this ought not to make you shun

the company of so many choice friends, as have an entire affection for

you.

The DAUPHINE’S Answer To PHILIP of Austria.

_Neither the examples you have quoted, nor those which are daily before

my eyes, have power enough to pervert me, I have a veneration for

virtue, which you, forsooth, call the quality of a coxcomb; and an

abhorrence for all that bears the stamp of vice, tho’ you have

illustrated it with the prosperous and glorious reign of the_ French

_monarch. But were the first unknown to me, I would not look for it in

your life; since, according to your best friends, it is a thing you

never practised. As sons have no authority to condemn the conduct of

their fathers, so I will not presume to examine into that of_ Lewis XIV.

_But tell me, I beseech you, what advantages you reaped from your

bigottry and superstition? For my part, had I some of the ashes of every

saint, in the_ Roman Calendar, _in my snuff-box, and carried beads as

big as cannon-bullets about me, I should not believe myself either a

better christian, or less exposed to danger. But to what purpose did

you, who never exposed your royal person in battle, arm yourself with

all those imaginary preservatives? Or can you say they defended you from

being devoured alive by millions of vermine, that punished you in this

life, for the iniquities you daily committed, and were only the prelude

to more terrible punishment. Let not my indifference for the church of_

Rome _break your rest; I have no power at present, and I can’t tell what

my sentiments would be, had I a crown on my head: but it now cruelly

troubles me, to see_ France _so weakened by the dispersion of so many

thousand innocent people: and did my opinion signify any more in our

councils than wind, I would advise the recalling of them. But the nymph,

you see, with so much satisfaction, supply the place of your grandchild,

and who has more power now than ever, is there as absolute as a_

dictator. _The_ French _monarchy, which has subsisted for so many ages,

might be still supported without her; she being good for nothing that I

know of, but to instruct youth in the nicest ways of debauchery;

therefore I could wish the king would transport her to her native soil,

and make her governess of the_ American _monkies; a fitter employment

for her than that she usurps over our princesses. To deal plainly with

you, I have no ambition to see your jesty, being satisfy’d with knowing

you from publick report; so will carefully avoid coming near your_

torrid zone, _if ’tis possible for a man to be any time a king of_

France, _without it_.

JUVENAL _to_ BOILEAU.

Since we don’t dispatch couriers every day from the kingdom of _Pluto_,

you ought not to be surprized, that I have not had an opportunity till

now, of telling you what sticks in my stomach. I thought your first

satires very admirable, your expressions just and laboriously turn’d,

yet charming and natural. Were the distribution of rewards in my power,

I should certainly give you something for your _Art of Poetry_: but for

your _Lutrin_, that master-piece of your wit, that highest effort of

your imagination, I see nothing in it worthy of you, but the

verification. Every one owns you can write, nay, your very enemies allow

it; but you know a metamorphosis requires an entire change; therefore,

since you resolve to imitate _Virgil_, you should have made choice of

noble heroes. He that travestied the _Æneis_, understood it better than

you, and did not fatigue himself so much; and as he was a man of clear

and good sense, has judiciously remark’d, that his queen disguised like

a country-wench, is infinitely beyond your clockmaker’s wife dress’d

like an empress. But let us leave this subject, which now it is too late

to amend, since what is done cannot be undone. What did you mean, you I

say, who have been accused of stealing my lines, and who, to deal

honestly with you, have often followed the same road I have traced? What

did you mean, I say, by reflecting on particulars in your satire against

women: Did I ever set you that example? Is not my sixth satire against

the sex in general; and when I look back as far as the reigns of

_Saturn_ and _Rhea_ for [27] modesty, do I pretend the least shadow of

it is left upon the earth? Unthinking fool! those different characters

you have drawn, will make you so many particular enemies; and I

question, if the patroness you have chosen can secure you from their

claws.

If an affected zeal inspires you with so much veneration for a saint of

the _Italian_ fashion, in truth you ought to have burnt your incense so

privately, that the smoke might not have offended others. How can the

bard that boasts of eating no flesh in _Lent_, that would frankly

discipline himself in the face of the godly, like one of the [28]

militia of St. _Francis_, adore a golden cow, and adorn an idol each

blast of wind can overthrow, with those garlands which should be

preserv’d for _the statues of the greatest heroes_! She is, it is true,

very singular in her kind; but will you stain your name, of _illustrious

poet_, by creeping before a walking mummy of her superannuated

gallantry? your sordid interest has made you a traytor to _Satire_; and

thereby you occasion here continual divisions, [29] _Chaquelian_ and

_St. Amant_ have been at cuffs with [30] _Moliere_ and _Cornielle_,

because you have not treated them so civilly as your [31] _Urgande_. The

two first ridicule your sordid covetous humour, and say you learnt that

baseness while you belong’d to the _Register’s Office_. The other two,

who were perhaps of your trade, defend the honour of your extraction.

But _St. Amant_[32], who will never forget the unworthy character you

have given him concerning his poverty, which he swears is false; and

submitting his verses to the judgment of unprejudiced persons, for which

you ridicule him, said in a haughty tone, (which set us all a laughing)

that when he was a gentleman of the chamber in ordinary to the queen of

_Poland_, and embassador extraordinary at the coronation of the queen of

_Sweden_, he kept several footmen of better quality than yourself.

_Chaquelian_, who cannot say so much for himself, is content with

singing the terrible valour of the duke _de Nevers_’s lackeys, who kept

time with their cudgels on your shoulders. We were forced to call for a

bottle to appease this war; and _St. Amant_, taking the glass in his

hand, swore by his maker, he had rather you had call’d him drunkard than

fool, tho’ he drinks very moderately in this place, where it is no great

scandal to be thirsty. Be not concerned at this paragraph, because the

rest of my letter sufficiently testifies the esteem I have for you, and

my concern for your welfare: therefore to preserve both, renounce your

sordid way of praising vice, and employ your happy talent in teaching

good manners, and correcting the bad, which will be an employment worthy

of your great genius, and is the only way to recommend you to the good

opinion of the learned ancients.

BOILEAU_’s Answer to_ JUVENAL.

_Illustrious Ghost_,

A messenger from the Muses never fill’d me with so much transport, as

the first sight of your letter; but I had not read six lines, before I

wish’d you had never done me that honour. To praise my _Satires_ and

fall foul upon my _Lutrin_ (which made me sweat more drops of water,

than your drunkard _St. Amant_ (since I must call him so) ever drank of

wine) is no favour. After many laborious and fruitless endeavours,

finding, to my great grief and distraction, I could not match you in

wit, I resolv’d if possible to out-do you in malice, which made me take

the liberty of romancing a little on _St. Amant_, falling foul upon

people’s characters and manners, and treating several scurvy poets more

roughly than you did the _Theseis_ of _Codrus_, when you sang,

_Semper ego auditor tantum nunquamne reponam?_

_Vexatus toties rauci Therseide Codri?_

Thus suffering the gall of my heart to flow thro’ the channel of my pen,

I procur’d myself enemies in abundance, and since I must confess all to

you, some stripes with a bull’s-pizzle, which was a most terrible

mortification to my shoulders; but I bore all this with the patience of

a philosopher, as will appear by the following lines.

_Let_ Codrus _that nauseous pretender to wit,_

_Condemn all my works before courtier and cit;_

_I bear all with patience, whatever he says,_

_And value as little his scandal as praise._

_Vain-glory no longer my genius does fire,_

_’Tis interest alone tunes the strings of my lyre._

_Integrity’s nought but a plausible sham,_

_For money I praise, and for money I damn._

_Old politic bards, for fame have no itching,_

_The_ Apollo _I court, is the steam of a kitchin_.

The four first lines, I must own, are something against the grain; and

the natural inclination I have to rail, and be thought an excellent

poet, gives my tongue the lie; but the four last, which shew more

prudence than wit, reconcile that matter. ’Tis certainly, illustrious

bard, more difficult to please the world now than it was in your time;

for if I write satire, I am beaten for it; if I praise, I am call’d a

mercenary flatterer, which so disheartens me, that I address myself now

to my Gardener only; and do not doubt but some busy nice critick will be

censuring this poem also. Not being in the best humour when I writ it,

perhaps it may appear something dark and abstruse; but I can easily

excuse that, by maintaining that ’tis impossible for the best author in

the world to keep up always to the same strain, Have you ever heard of

the tales of the _Peau d’Asne_, & _Grisedilis_? if _Proserpine_ had any

little children, ’twould be a most agreeable diversion for them, and I

wou’d send it ’em for a present. Tho’ that author furnishes you with

sufficient matter to laugh at me, yet I must confess he has found the

art of making something of a trifle. Every one here learns his verses by

heart; and in spight of my translation of _Longinus_, which makes it so

plainly appear, I understand _Greek_, and know something of poetry, my

book begins to be despis’d. Wou’d it not break a Man’s heart to see such

impertinent stuff preferr’d before so many sublime pieces? But, as for

your glory that will eternally subsist, and nothing can destroy it,

since time has not already done it.

DIANA _of_ Poictiers, _Mistress to_ HEN. II. _of_ France, _to Madam_

MAINTENON.

Since the spirit of curiosity possesses us here in this world, no less

than it did in your’s, ’tis an infinite trouble for those persons,

Madam, who were acquainted with every thing while they liv’d, not to

know all that passes after their death; and of this you’ll one day make

an experiment. I am not desirous to know, Madam, what you have done to

succeed the greatest beauties of the earth, in the affection of an old

libidinous monarch, nor what charms you make use of to secure the

possession of his heart, at an age you cannot please without a miracle.

My planet, dear Madam, has rendered me somewhat knowing in these

affairs, for _Henry_ II. was my gallant as long as he liv’d; and tho’ I

was little handsomer than you, I was not, I think, much younger. But I

must tell you, I cannot comprehend what procures you those loud

commendations and applauses which reach even to our ears, and are by

their noise most horribly offensive to us. The advantages of my birth

were great; and it is well known my charms so captivated _Francis_ I.

that they redeem’d my father from the gallows. I marry’d a very

considerable man, and the name of _Breze Reneschal_ of _Normandy_,

sounds somewhat better than that of _Scarron the queen’s ballad-maker_.

The house of _Poictiers_ too, from which I was descended, may surely

take place of those monarchs from whom that mercenary fellow _Boileau_

derives your extraction; and lastly, if I had a few particular enemies,

I did nothing to make myself generally odious. Yet for all this, I was

neither canoniz’d nor prais’d, but openly laugh’d at, and by one of my

own profession, I mean the duchess of _Estampe_, who was mistress to the

father of my lover, and said she was born on my wedding-day. Blundering

impudent _Bayard_ was banish’d for speaking too freely of me; and tho’

it was said, _That for me alone beauty had the privilege not to grow

old_, the compliment was so forc’d, that I was little the better for it.

Ragged _Marot_ was the only poet that ever pretended to couple rhimes in

my praise; and I will appeal to you if he did not deserve to go naked.

_I dare not, (were’t to save my ransom)_

_Affirm your ladyship is handsome;_

_Nor, without telling monstrous lyes,_

_Defend the lightning of your eyes;_

_For, Madam, to declare the truth,_

_You’ve neither face, nor shape, nor youth._

_Howe’er, all flattery apart,_

_You’ve plaid your cards with wond’rous art._

_When young, no lover saw your charms._

_Or press’d you in his eager arms:_

_But triumphs your old age attend,_

_And you begin where others end._

What think you, Madam, of this, is it not rather satire than praise?

Shou’d the bard, that sings your virtues from the top of _Parnassus_

down to the market-place, be as sincere, how wou’d you reward him? Tho’

I know he has more prudence, yet I cannot believe he compares you to

_Helen_ for beauty, to _Hebe_ for youth, for chastity to _Lucretia_, for

courage to _Clelia_, and for wisdom to _Minerva_, as common report says;

because, were it true, it is not to be suppos’d you would have but a

poor deform’d poet in possession of such mighty treasures. For were

there not scepters and crowns then enticing? Were not then the eyes of

princes open? Did you chuse an author for your love, out of caprice or

despair? Did you take his wicker-chair for a throne? Or did the love of

philosophy draw you in? Had the latter wrought upon you, you would not

have been the first, I must confess; for the famous _Hirparchia_,

handsome, young, and rich, preferr’d poor crooked _Crates_ before the

wealthiest and most beautiful gentleman of _Greece_. I am unwilling to

judge uncharitably, but I cannot be perswaded that such an alliance

could be contracted without some pressing necessity. When I reflect on

the beginning, increase, and circumstances of your fortune, I am

astonish’d? for neither your hair, which was grey when you began to

grow in favour; nor the remembrance of [33] a vestal once adorned; nor

the idea of a [34] blooming beauty, whom cruel death suddenly snatch’d

away by the help of a little poison; nor the presence of a [35] rival,

by so much the more dangerous, because she had triumph’d over several

others, could prove any obstacles to your prosperity. The beautiful lady

that brought you out of your mean obscurity; and in whose service you

thought yourself happy, is now content if you let her enjoy the least

shew of her former greatness. In this Chaos I lose myself, Madam; but if

you will bring me out of my confusion, I faithfully promise to give you

an exact account of all that concerns me, when I shall have the pleasure

of embracing you. I exceedingly commend your prudent conduct; for those

young plants you cultivate in a [36] terrestial paradice, will one day

produce flowers to crown you; and the zeal you profess for a religion

which began to act furiously in my time, must stop the mouths of the

nicest bigots, and make the tribunal of confession favourable to you;

tho’ perhaps, dear Madam, it may make that of _Minos_ a little more

severe.

_Madam_ MAINTENON_’s Answer to_ DIANA _of_ Poictiers.

Curiosity, Madam, being the character of the great and busy, I will

answer you according to your merit and birth, tho’ you have not treated

me so, since you know what charms a lover when youth is gone; I will

dismiss that point to come to the history of my life, and the virtuous

actions I am prais’d for. I know you are of an antient family, that you

marry’d a man of power and riches; and that you were _Francis_ the

First’s bedfellow, before his son fell in love with you. As for me, I

was born in the [37] new world, under a favourable constellation; and

the offspring of a Jaylor’s daughter, with whom my father, tho’ of royal

blood, was oblig’d, either thro’ love, or rather necessity, to cohabit.

Fortune, which never yet forsook me, first deprived me of my beggarly

relations, without leaving me wherewithal to cover my nakedness, and

then brought me into _Europe_, where I found a great many lovers, and

few husbands. Poor deform’d _Scarron_ at last offer’d me his hand; I had

my reasons for accepting him, and his infirmities did not hinder me from

receiving that title which was convenient for one in my circumstances.

In short, I lost him without much concern; and liv’d so prudently during

my widowhood, that Madam _Montespan_ took me out of my cell, to bring me

into the intrigues of the court. Every one knows I drove my generous

patroness from the royal bed; and that since my being in favour, I have

been profusely liberal to all my idolaters. Our poets, who do not

resemble _Marot_, value not honour, provided they have good pensions,

which I generously bestow on them, and they repay me in panegyricks; by

which means I am handsome, young, chaste, virtuous, wise, and of as

noble blood as _Alexander_ the Great. Tho’ I was a Protestant, the

church is not so foolish as to enquire into my religion, thus out of a

principle of gratitude, and to fix her in my interest, I have fill’d the

heart of our monarch with the godly zeal of persecution. I have also

founded a stately [38] edifice, where I breed up a great many pretty

young virgins, who, no doubt on’t, will prove as modest and discreet as

their founder; and I play so well the part of a queen, that the world

thinks me so in reality. These few hints may give you some light into my

history, Madam, therefore to reward my sincerity, if you find _Minos_

dispos’d to use me severely, prepare him, I beseech you, to be more

favourable.

HUGH SPENCER _the younger, Minion of_ EDWARD II. _to all the

Favourites and Ministers whom it may concern_.

Let all those that are ambitious of the title of favourite learn by the

history of my life, how dangerous a folly it is to monopolize their

prince’s smiles. A man climbs to the top of this slippery ascent thro’ a

thousand difficulties; and if he is not moderate in his prosperity,

(which few are) he often falls with a more precipitated shame into

disgrace. I acquir’d, or rather usurp’d, the favour of _Edward_ II. in

whose breast the proud _Gaveston_ had before me licentiously revell’d.

To effect this, my father lent me his helping hand; but without growing

wiser by the examples of others, the vanity of my ambition made me

follow that wandring star, call’d fortune. I no sooner had possess’d

myself of the king’s ear, but I crept into the secrets of his heart, and

infected it with the blackest venom of mine; acting the part of a

self-interested, not an honest minister. As I valued not the glory of

his reign, or ease of his people, provided I governed him, and render’d

myself master of his treasures; so did I never move him to relieve the

miserable, or reward the faithful and deserving, but endeavour’d to

blacken the merit of their greatest actions, and so settled the first

motions of his liberality, with reasons of sordid interest. If any

places of trust were to be fill’d, covering my treachery still with the

veil of zeal and love for my country, I recommended only such as were

devoted to my service; pretending ill management in every thing that

went not thro’ my hands; and that the nation was betray’d, whilst I,

like some of you now, was selling it, and was in reality the worst enemy

it had. After I had sacrific’d the great duke of _Lancaster_ to my

revenue, and a hundred persons of quality besides, I sow’d discord in

the royal family, The queen, with the prince of _Wales_ her son, and the

earl of _Kent_, the king’s brother, retir’d into _France_; during which

time I govern’d at my ease, wallow’d in luxury and riches, and had

interest enough to hinder _Charles_ the Fair from protecting his sister.

The Pope, who was of my religion, storm’d like a true father, son of the

church, and so frighted the king of _France_, that in spite of their

nearness of blood, he hunted the queen of _England_ out of his

dominions. But at last the king being reconciled, the queen returns; I

was taken prisoner, and by the laws of the kingdom, sentenc’d to be

drawn on a sledge, at sound of trumpet, thro’ the streets of _Hereford_.

The circumstances of my death were infamous; my head was expos’d at

_London_, my bowels, heart, and some others parts of body burn’d, my

carcass abandon’d to the crows, in four parts of the kingdom; the

justest reward a villain, who had almost destroy’d both king and country

cou’d expect. This is, gentlemen, favourites and ministers, a picture

you ought all to have in your closets, to keep you from resembling it.

When in favour, banish not justice, clemency and generosity, from the

thrones of your master; and to avoid a just hatred, and make men of

virtue your friends, study the publick interest. Turn over old histories

and you’ll find there is scarce one, or few of us, got peaceably to the

grave, but either starv’d or rotted, or immortaliz’d a gibbet. Not one

eye ever wept for our sufferings, pity itself rejoiced. Thus detested on

earth, and curs’d by heaven, our last refuge is to become the prey of

devils. Consider well, gentlemen, and arm yourselves against all those

vicious passions, which will certainly undo you, if you listen to them

as I did. Therefore in the slippery paths of a court, take prudence and

justice for your supports.

_The Answer of the Chief Ministers of the King of_ Iveter _to_ HUGH

SPENCER.

The picture you have drawn of your life and death, shews you were

notoriously wicked, and rewarded according to your deserts. But let me

tell you, Sir, that ’tis a great mistake to believe a minister cannot

manage or steer his prince, without abusing him and the publick. Because

you were the horror of your age, is it an inevitable destiny for other

favourites to be so too? I will not here make my own panegyrick, but

leave that care to posterity: However, I will boldly maintain, that to

suffer a master to divide his benevolence, when one can secure it all to

ones self, is folly and stupidity. A prudent man knows how to make a

right use of his master’s weakness; and if he finds him inclin’d now and

then to gratify eminent services, he will not seem much averse to it,

provided still he loses nothing by the bargain: But if his prince is of

a covetous temper, charity, which always begins at home, then bids him

shut up his _Exchequer_, and reserve to himself the sole privilege of

opening it at leisure. ’Tis likewise no ill step in our politicks to cry

down those actions, which might otherwise by their weight out-value

ours: Upon such occasions to testify the least zeal, fidelity and care,

will be thought meritorious. Tho’ the escutcheons we leave our children,

have some blots in them, what signifies that, provided we leave them

rich and noble titles, which will procure them honour, and all sorts of

pleasures in this world, and a saint’s place hereafter, in that

uncertain volume of the _Roman Almanack_.

JULIA _to the Princess of_ CONTI.

As you may wonder, madam, that I who lived so many ages ago, and at

present am so many thousand leagues from you, should esteem and love

you; might I wonder too, in my turn, if you should have a good opinion

of me, after so many historians have conspired to blacken my reputation.

But there are, dear sister, such circumstances in our fortunes, as ought

to make us love one another, and hold a friendly correspondence; since

you are like me, the daughter of a beautiful, treacherous prince, who

drags good fortune at his heels; and of a mother who renounced the world

before it did her the injury of renouncing her. I was once the ornament

of the court of _Augustus_, and you now shine like a star, in that of

_Lewis_ XIV. I was marry’d very young to _Marcellus_, the hopes of the

_Romans_; and almost in your infancy, you were given to the most amiable

man that ever was of the _Bourbons_: I lost the son of _Octavia_ some

months after our marriage, and your forehead was bound with the fatal

sable, before _Hymen_’s garlands were in the least withered; you are

handsome, I was not ugly; you occasion jealousy, and I suffer’d the

sharpest darts of destruction: I had lovers beyond number; and who is

able to reckon your’s? They have not perhaps been so favourably

received; and I believe the air, and want of opportunity, not our

inclinations, to be the cause, for you never yet despis’d those

pleasures I daily enjoy’d and sigh’d after; and tho’ by the death of

_Agrippa_, I came under the tyranny of _Tiberius_, I pursu’d my

inclinations to the last. Widows of your age generally enter the list

again: But, princess, the counsel I have to give you, is, to reserve to

yourself the liberty of your choice. There are so many _Tiberius_’s

where you are, that one may easily fall to your share, and after that

nothing but banishment will be wanting to finish the comparison. A very

malignant [39] planet at present commands your destiny; and ’tis in vain

to expect justice from that jealous, ill-natur’d fury. Now I have given

you advice, which, if I could return into the world, I would follow

myself, permit me to justify my actions.

Historians tell you, I endeavoured to reign in every heart, whatever it

cost me, without any regard to the owner’s birth and condition: But do

you think that so very criminal? Does a little kindness deserve so

severe a censure? Must persons of quality be always oblig’d to have an

eye on their dignity? and did not he that made the prince, make the

coachman? But what I cannot with patience suffer, is the impudent lie

some have made concerning _Ovid_; that versifyer had a nicer fancy in

poetry than beauty; like your father, _My dear sister_, he imagin’d

wonderful charms in grey hairs; for _Marcellus_ was but newly dead when

he fell in love with _Livia_. ’Twas her he celebrated under the feigned

name of _Corinna_; and when he pleas’d, disciplin’d, she, like a child

not daring to resist. Thus people being ignorant of closer privacies,

invent malicious lies; for do you suppose I would have suffer’d such

insolent usage? And that if I had not been strong enough to have cuff’d

that rhiming puppy, I would not have found out some other way to have

been even with him? You very well see my reasons have some appearance of

truth, and I am confident, that when we meet we shall agree very well.

The emperor who had his private amours, never troubled those of his

wife; and _Merena_’s spouse, proud of possessing the affections of so

great a monarch, returned in soft embraces the favours bestowed on her

husband. I have insensibly made you an ingenuous consession; do you the

same, madam, for hell is so damnable tiresome, that I gape and stretch a

thousand times an hour. When your hand is in, pray send me word what

they are doing in your part of the world; but above all, give me a true

account of your amours and conquests; for those relations tickle us,

even when we have lost the power of acting. Therefore to invite you to

be very plain with me, as likewise to divert myself in my present

melancholy moments, I will give you some of my thoughts in metre, such

as it is.

_A mighty monarch you begot,_

_Who’s pious as the devil;_

_Your mother too, by all is thought,_

_To be extreamly civil._

_Descending from so bright a pair,_

_You both their gifts inherit;_

_All your great father’s virtue share,_

_And all your mother’s merit._

_When I was young and gay like you,_

_I lov’d my recreation_;

Mamma’s _dear steps I did pursue,_

_And balk’d no inclination_.

_And, madam, when your charms are gone,_

_Your lovers will forsake you;_

_They’ll cry your sporting days are done,_

_And bid old_ Pluto _take you_.

_Thus I have given all trading o’er._

_And wisely left off sporting;_

_Resolv’d to practise it no more,_

_After my reign of courting._

As reproaching and talking freely is not here discouraged; so had I done

any lewd trick, your confessor wou’d have acquainted you with it; for he

keeps a strict correspondence with the chiefest ministers of our

monarch. You have been jealous where you ought not, and the saints of

_St. Germains_ and _Versailles_, when they come to discover the mystery

of your curiosity, will never forgive you. The mealy mouth’d Goddess was

always easy to be corrupted, and the old monster Envy prospers but too

much; therefore take care of one, and prevent the other, that the sins

of others may not be imputed to you. All that the world can say against

your virtue, shall never diminish my good opinion of it; and if you do

not believe the character I give of myself, consult [40] _Calprinede_,

who has drawn me to the life, and was a great master in that way, as

_Apelles_ in his. Farewel, fair princess, and remember that _Julia_

languishes with desire to see you.

_The Princess of_ CONTI_’s Answer to_ JULIA.

I did not expect to be honoured with a letter from so famous a princess

as _Julia_: This makes my joy so much the greater. I do sincerely

declare, that I take all you say to me so reasonable, that I can do no

less than applaud it: And I further assure you, that I never search’d

for your character in those disobliging authors who magnify the lest

false step, and make an elephant of a mouse. I am satisfy’d to know you,

as I find you in _Calprinede_; and the complaisance he pretends you had

for _Ovid_, does not hinder me from having a great affection for your

amiable qualities; and believing as advantageously of your modesty as

you can desire. I am not so severe as to imagine a little indulgence can

be a greater crime; but think those who will, for a little natural

civility, ruin the reputation of courteous ladies, to be malicious

people, only envying those gallantries which are addressed to others.

But, madam, you have strangely surprized me with what you tell me of

_Livia_; for I always believed, that when old ambition was her only

blind side; but am astonished to hear she was amorous. This discovery

confirms the received opinion, that old age has a wanton inclination, as

well as youth, tho’ not so much ability; and since the wife of _Cæsar_

lov’d the language of the muses, I am not astonished that our saints of

St. _Cyril_ have been charm’d with it. But, dear madam, is it certain

that _Ovid_ disciplin’d her like a child; I thought the _Roman_ ladies

had not wanted that exercise; and I believe my gallants will never be

obliged to come to that extremity with me. I need not use much

precaution against the folly of a second marriage; for tho’ I was

coupled to a very charming young man, yet I soon found my expectations

bilk’d, because the name of husband and wife, and thoughts of duty so

lessened the pleasures of our softest embraces, that it made them

odious. So that now I only love a spouse for a night, from whom I may be

divorced the next morning; and this perhaps, you’ll find more plainly

expressed in the following lines, as I doubt not, dearest sister, but

you have made the experiment.

_Your tender girls, when first their hands,_

_Are join’d in_ Hymen_’s magick bands._

_Fondly believe they shall maintain_

_A long, uninterrupted reign:_

_But to their cost, too soon they prove,_

_That marriage is the bane of love._

_That phantom_, duty, _damps its fire._

_And clips the wings of fierce desire._

_But lovers in a different strain_

_Express, as well as ease their pain:_

_Ever smiling, ever fair,_

_To please us is their only care,_

_And as their flame finds no decay,_

_They only covet we should pay_

_In the same coin, and that you know,_

_Is always in our pow’r to do._

And will be always so, illustrious princess, to our great comfort and

satisfaction. You have heard, I suppose, what the writing of a few

letters has cost me; so that I have laid aside all commerce of that

nature at present, and am often oblig’d to trifle my thoughts. Had I not

fear’d _Mercury_’s being searched, I would have opened my heart a little

more to you; but if the times ever change, or madam _Maintenon_, the

governess of _Versailles_, becomes less inquisitive, you may certainly

expect to receive an epistle, or rather a volume from me.

I put no confidence in the king my father, and he is so jealous of me,

that should he pack up his awls for the other world, I wou’d not trust

him. I pity you for being kept so close, and having so bad company.

That you may yawn and stretch less, and laugh a little more, entertain

yourself with _la Fontain_’s tales, or the school of _Venus_, both

excellent books in their kind, which I am confident will extreamly

divert you; not so much upon the account of their novelty, as by

recalling to your mind some past actions of your life.

For my part, I highly esteem them both, and you’ll oblige by telling the

author so.

DIONYSIUS _the Younger, to the Flatterers of what Degree or Country

soever_.

Tho’ the torments I now suffer for my former tyrannies, are as great as

they are just; yet you cursed villains, deserve much greater, for being

the promoters of them. You, with your infernal praises, blind the eyes

of princes, and hurry them on headlong to their ruin: therefore I charge

you with all the ill actions of my reign. I was no sooner seated on my

throne, but you so swell’d me with pride, by applauding all my

perjuries, oppressions and cruelties, that I believ’d it lawful for our

race to be tyrants, from father to son, with impunity. Every one knows

my father was equally wicked and covetous, neither sparing, or fearing

men or Gods; and of this _Jupiter_ and _Æsculapius_ are examples. In a

fit of impiety, till then unpractised by the most desperate villains, he

stripp’d the first of his golden mantle, excusing it with this jest,

_That ’twas too hot for the summer, and too cold for the Winter_. To the

second he turn’d barber and cut off his golden beard, which with great

devotion had been presented to him, alledging, _It was improper for the

son, since his father_ Apollo _went without one_. When his conduct had

thus render’d him odious to the world he thought it necessary to make

himself secure; for which end, he ordered a large deep ditch to be dug

about his palace; but that was no fortification against fear, which

could creep in at every key-hole; and his distrust increased to that

degree, that he suspected his nearest relations. Not so much as a

_Maintenon_ came near him. At last his guards to oblige the world, cut

his throat, and sent his soul as a harbinger to the Devil, to provide

room for his body; and the people thinking me to be a much honester man,

without difficulty plac’d me on his throne. But I soon took care to

convince these credulous sots, that a worse was come in his room, far

exceeding him in cruelty, I endeavoured to secure my throne by actions

then unknown to the world. _First_, I caused my brothers to be put to

death, and when I had glutted myself with the blood of these victims, I

made no scruple to violate the laws, and trample upon all the just

rights and liberties of my people. By those and a thousand other

barbarities, tiring the patience of the _Syracusans_, they drove me into

_Italy_, where the _Locrians_ kindly received me: and I to requite them

for their civility, ravish’d their women, murder’d numbers of their

citizens, and pillag’d their country. At last, by a now contrived

treachery, I re-entered _Syracuse_, with design to revenge myself by new

desolations; but _Dion_ and _Timolion_, much honester men than either

myself or you, prevented me by putting me a second time to flight. ’Twas

my destiny, and I wonder historians do not add the epithet of coward, to

my just name of tyrant. I then retired to _Corinth_, where in a short

time my misery became so pressing, that I was forc’d to turn bum-brusher

in my own defence, a condition which best suited with a man that

delighted in tyranny and blood; and as I had been one of _Pluto_’s

disciples, I taught a sort of philosophy which I had learned, but never

practised. Thus was my throne turn’d into a desk; and my scepter into a

ferula. Heavens! what a shameful metamorphosis was this. But, gentlemen

sycophants, with a murrian to you, I may thank you for it. You, like the

_Cameleon_, can put on any colour, can turn vice into virtue, and virtue

into vice, to deceive your masters; and under the specious pretence of

religion can commit the greatest barbarities. But tho’ under the shelter

of that reverend name, you think all your iniquities undiscovered, so

you possess your prince with the abominable zeal of persecution; yet

heaven sees and detests your hypocrisy, and even men at long-run,

discover the cheat. Oh! ye unworthy enemies of virtue, whose only aim is

to raise your own fortunes upon the ruin of others. How useful are you

to the Devil? You matter it not, provided you compass your desired

ends; if we lay waste the universe, and afterwards become the hate and

scorn of all mankind: As for example, ’tis long of you that I have been

a pedant in _Greece_, and that [41] one of my rank, had he not been

taken to rest, would have been forced to cover his follies under a

stinking cowl, in the lousy convent of _la Trape_. You will not fail, I

know, to applaud all his actions, and say, if he lost all, ’twas only

for obliging his subjects to take the true road to heaven, and give the

title of resignation to meer necessity and compulsion. But is it a

sacrifice to renounce thro’ despair, the grandeur we cannot maintain any

longer? Is it not rather imitating the _animal in the fable_, that

despises the grapes which are out of his reach? But I waste my lungs in

vain, and talk to the deaf: however, if I have been humbled, believe

that you will not always be exalted. ’Tis my comfort that you will one

day be condemned to turn a wheel like _Ixion_, to roll stones like

_Sysiphus_, to be devoured like _Prometheus_, continually thirsty like

_Tantalus_, and to heighten your evils, that you will never lose the

remembrance of those villanies you committed.

_The Answer of the_ News-Mongers _to Young_ DIONYSIUS.

The flatterers have done you too much honour, Mr. _Pedant_, and shou’d

they believe you, and turn honest, (of which I think there is no great

danger) and perswade their masters to be just to their oaths and

treaties, wou’d not they govern in peace and unity? And wou’d not that

very thing cast the world into such a drowsy tranquility, that it wou’d

be melancholy living in it, and starve millions of all degrees and

professions, who now, lord it very handsomely? We, I’m sure, shou’d be

first sensible of it, by having no variety of news to stuff our _London

Gazettes_, _Mercuries_ and _Slips_ with; which wou’d make the

booksellers withdraw our stipends, and by consequence oblige us to leave

off tipping the generous juice of the grape, and content ourselves with

Geneva, or some more phlegmatick manufacture. Therefore keep your

harangues for your school-boys, and do not maliciously take our daily

bread from us, and seek to ruin those complaisant persons, that can

condescend to sooth the vanities and inclinations of their princes. But

to dismiss this point, and return to yourself; ’tis plain you have not a

jot of honour about you, since you pay no regard to your father’s

reputation. We easily perceive you have been a _pedagogue_ by your

tattling; which indiscretion makes you unworthy the title of great

_Pluto_’s disciple. But has your pedantick majesty no better rewards to

bestow on gentlemen of courtly breeding than wheels, vultures,

millstones, and an eternal thirst? Truly ’tis very liberal, and

school-master like in every respect; but you are desired to keep those

mighty blessings for yourself, who deserve them much better than any one

else; and if you were cullied by those about you, talk no more on’t, but

keep your weakness to yourself.

CHRISTIANA, _Queen of_ SWEDEN, _to the Ladies_.